


Vicious Cabaret

by Cluegirl



Series: HP Drabbles [3]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2010-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles featuring Lucius Malfoy and Harry Potter, one 'chapter' per drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I will stare into the sun until its light doesn't blind me.

It wasn't the sex he was after (though, make no mistake, the pliant, eager little creature was just this side of addictive.) It wasn't the blazing green of his eyes, wide and wet when his orgasm whelmed him that drew him, or the sharp, milky little-boy smell of him.

It wasn't the smallness of his hands or neat, pink toes, splayed wide and grappling for purchase against the floor or the wall or the silken coverlet. It wasn't the taut, bronzed lines of his back, scribing a perfect arch and aglow with sweat.

Those things did not lure him, moth-helpless to the boy's bed. That was not what found him squinting, blinking in desperation, blinded by the screaming, pulsing need.

It was the way he slept after; burned clean, and clutched close to that narrow, sun-bronzed chest. Plucked from an endless fall of wax and stolen feathers by seeker-nimble hands.


	2. Constrictionism

The laces creak a protest Lucius doesn't have the breath to voice. The fiercely clasping garment has him cock-hard hard and dizzyingly flushed, clinging to the bedpost like a lover, like he wasn't chained there to begin with, or there wasn't a cock like a bar of iron sliding into his arse with every delicious tug. The laces creak again, and he lays his head back, hair sliding like ice across his shoulder.

*please...* his lips shape the word in red-rimmed black, in cloth, bone and rigid steel, in lace over cold satin over hot need. *oh please...* Because he is close -- so close to heaven that his bones ache. So close to hell that his cock is beating at the door, and seraphs bugger incubi in the jagged margins of his narrowing sight.

Then the laces jerk one last time, the cock thrusts in hard, and he's there; coming, falling, screaming in silence and green fire. But hands catch him as always, the laces roar loose, and lips press icy air into his mouth once more. Because the Hero cannot let him die -- not even in the grasp of Heaven.

What would be the fun in that?


	3. The beauty is that everything changes.

"This place doesn't feel cursed," Harry mused, looking around the dusty, derelict townhouse, "I mean I know from cursed houses, and this..."

Lucius stepped close behind him, wrapped chill arm around his incautious young lover's waist. "It is. Trust me, Gypsy curses are the worst. Been in the family for ages, and simply impossible to sell."

"So what are we doing here?" Harry asked, pretty sure the erection pressing into his back was all the answer he needed.  
It was, but the searing kiss which followed it was welcome nonetheless.

And for a time, neither cared about the dust, about the darkness, about anything but sliding flesh, and clasping hands and panting cries.

Until the full moon rose. Until the house shuddered, groaned, and ground and screamed around them.

Lucius swore.

Harry clung.

Eventually the noise and rattling gave way to lofty, metallic echoes, and aching stillness.

"What the-?"

"Werehouse."


	4. "For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds / Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds." Sonnet 94

At first it seemed a kitchen problem, or perhaps something wrong with the drains.

Lucius beat a couple of house elves, then returned to the delights of his war prize; the pliant boy, so responsive, who suffered so very prettily.

And with Narcissa absent, Lucius needn't even be discrete about his entertainments.

But... the smell did not go. Instead, the house elves began to desert their posts, one by treacherous one. Lucius burned sweet incense, and set Draco to sorting it out while he, inspired, staged an ecumenical parody which kept him entertained for a week.

And still the smell dogged him -- sweetly rank and thick in his throat. Maddening, inescapable. Goaded to it at last, he traced the source to the dungeon's deepest cell, where waited Harry's toys -- an abbatoir of the Malfoy line... All but one. All but him.

The cell door closed with a snicker.


	5. Take the money and run.

Lucius put his back into it -- eyes blazing down into the face of the boy who lived to take it hard and bloody well like it, teeth bared, hair swinging wildly as the blood rose in his face. _Slave! Child of slaves,_ that expression shouted. _Puerile, aggravating infant! Who are you? Who are you to deserve this of me?_

But he didn't stop, didn't slow, and while Harry didn't howl in protest, the bedsprings did. He didn't turn away, and he didn't flinch aside as, the lithe, sweaty, black-haired boy bit his lip and came with a long sigh.

The triumph building behind Lucius' balls faded abruptly as the brat didn't even wait for him to finish before sweeping a pouch of galleons off the night table and dropping it on his back with a clunk.

"Not bad, old man, but I've had better."

Lest he sputter, Lucius said nothing. But the glint in those hateful green eyes stole all dignity from his silence.

Potter grinned, shifted beneath him. "Oh, I don't mind if you finish off, of course, but seeing as how the Aurors will be here in three minutes, you might consider taking off now instead…"


	6. Must you betray me with a kiss?

The Toy who Lived, it appeared, had a gift for prophecy.

It was quite the revelation (in every sense of the word,) to his Master, who, while grateful for his Dark Lord's generousity, had really expected no more than a glorious fucktoy for his reward -- an sharply delicious innocent to despoil, and eventually, an instrument upon which to explore the rhapsodies of pain and anguish.

Imagine his surprise to find the Voice issuing from Harry Potter's bloodied lips the first time he buggered the brat to the point of delirium!

The war having taught him the benefit of forbearance over ambition, Lucius shared the information with the Dark Lord at once. Soon afterward, he found himself proving his claim -- on his knees before Voldemort's court, fingers knotted into black, silky hair, cock buried to the root in an arse that flexed and rippled around him like terrified silk, like the kiss of the damned.

"A pretty show, yes, but..." Voldemort waved a hand.

"A moment...my Lord..." he gritted, red faced, straining, "you will... see..."

And then the court gave a murmur and a stir: Smoke issued from the boy's parted, rosy lips -- smoke and a voice as low and grinding as a mountain's tread. As one, they yearned forward to hear.

"Two Dark Lordssss a knot shall make. The second Lord, the first Lord Break," the future rumbled while the room gasped aloud, and Lucius tried not to come, "The First Lord twice to Death shall fall, the second claim the throne withall..."

"Silence that-"

But the Mighty voice rolled over Voldemort's words like a train, like thunder. Lucius shuddered as the boy turned blazing green eyes back to stare at him, and added. "Hail to thee, Dark Lord."

Lucius' orgasm was like thunder in his ears.


End file.
